Starlit Nights and Sunlit Days
by Lady of Myth and Legends
Summary: A series of one-shots following Quasi & Sophia during the one year between the end of The Light Within Us & the Epilogue. Of Nightmares and Midnight Dreams: A night of vengeful dreams leads to the bearing of the lovers deepest fears.


**Hello there. Long time no see, my friends. This story is more of a series of One-shots shedding more insight on Quasi and Sophia's romantic growth after the end of The Light Within Us but BEFORE the Epilogue. With that said, it is imperative that you read my stories Heaven's Light Shines Upon You and The Light With Us. This series relies heavily upon those stories.**

 **This is what happened in that one years worth of time before Esmeralda and Phoebus's wedding and before Quasi finally kissed Sophia. All told in One-shots because I highly doubt I would be able to make a full length story to fit in that one year. Here's the first one.**

 **P.S. If you have suggestions, please PM me. I am quite open to ideas.**

* * *

 _ **Starlit Nights and Sunlit Days**_

* * *

 **Nightmares and Midnight Dreams**

* * *

Paris. The City of Lovers was glowing, bathed in the silvery shadow of the moon, and rustling with a light breeze which offered a much needed reprieve from a rather harsh, blistering heat wave. The night air shimmered with tranquility and peace, the inhabitants no longer fearing the shadows for guards and flames. Ease had found its way again, as it always tends to do, into war-torn hearts and comfort finally resting gentle hands on wounded flesh.

However, the dreamscapes of a choice few still echoed with battles yet to be won. Beyond a small bridge, in a modest home made just well enough, a young woman woke.

It was not the chilled night air nor the sound of whistling wind through tightly closed shutters that roused her from the depths of slumber. Her heartbeat, a now throbbing mass of corded muscle, thundered relentlessly in her chest; her body colder than the memory of stone and steel and ash. A second flicker of rapid color and a wave of muted, water-filtered echoes reverberated through her as if a lance had been thrust deep in her breast. A half-formed sob found its way to her lips yet, her tongue refused its release, sending it away with a rough, painful swallow. She crumpled then, twisting and curling herself further in her bed, willing for the smell of flame and the sound of sorrow to leave her.

It had only been two fortnights and yet, the images and screams had still not relinquished their hold upon her mind. Sometimes the events of that blood-soaked dawn would play out verbatim, each moment strictly accounted for and every word recalled in crystal clear clarity. Such nights were almost bearable and she rarely woke from them. And yet, even far more terrifying, the memories would sometimes change; becoming warped and untrue. He _fell,_ fingers slipping from her too small hands, plunging into a pit of hellfire and a man with locks that shone as bright as gold held her from the edge. Away from _him._ Then, the silver haired demon would come with a smile that glinted with death and eyes so cold they burned. And a sword would find its sheath in her heart and then _his_ voice would ring out in terror and sorrow.

It was on these nights that she would wake, cold, with a fevered mind, and a scream at her lips. Tonight was such a night and she understood she would know no safety in her dreams. Not when the silver haired demon lie in wake for her the moment her eyes closed. Not when the smell of burning wood and hair still lingered in her nostrils and her ears rang out with the agonizing cries of the bell ringer of Notre Dame.

Another sob, this one willfully set free from its confines.

She buried her weeping eyes within the smothering fabric of her pillow, seeking refuge that would not come until the light of morning broke across the horizon.

Sophia had not slept a true restful night for thirty days and now she was, quite literally, breaking apart.

* * *

 _"What could a monster like you ever hope to have? Do you truly believe she cares for you?" His father mocked scornfully, his lips curling upwards in a devilish smirk._

 _He took a hesitant step back and, to his horror, found himself pressed against the cold stone of Notre Dame's arched walkway. His heart beat furiously, fear lacing through him as the man paced with him, a gleaming red stained sword clutched in his fist. The muscle cradled within his chest stumbled and faltered at the sight of it._

 _"NO!" He cried out, fear mounting within his veins._

 _His father merely tilted his silver gray head and openly cackled in glee; exposing a set of once snow white teeth, now but a rotting, decaying yellow. The once water-gray eyes, a hellish fiery orange. The scent of burning rope, wood, and hair promptly filled the air and he felt nausea and bile rise in his throat. Heat rose and his skin blistered at its intensity._

 _Where was she?!_

 _His father's smirk widened even further, eyes glittering with madness; as if he heard his silent plea. He may as well have cried out aloud for all the good it did him._

 _"Oh, the girl?" His father's twisted appearance truly was nothing compared to the sheer coolness of his voice. If possible, it was even more frightful. "Is that what you seek, you ungrateful cur? Then you shall have her!"_

 _And if by his father's command, the unseen heat retained physical form. Flames sprung from the mortar beneath his feet in flashes so bright, it blinded him. He raised a hand to shield his face but, it had no effect. It kissed his hands in a searing touch and nipped at his hair as if in jest. Somewhere, his father laughed cruelty, the sound echoing terribly around him._

 _There was pain and . . . terror._

 _He turned frantically about, searching; searching. And finding nothing but smoke and flame._

 _"S-Sophia!" His voice broke as he called her name, the fear rising and clawing and_ suffocating _!_

 _Then the tongues of fire surged as one and coiled about him, cutting him off. They flew at him, choking him with smoke and heat. He could not breathe! A scream, a terrible sound, filled the smoke clouded air, and then . . . the flames receded in unison. Darkness took hold in an instant and the air, though now clear of smoke, now cooled rapidly. A bitter chill hung in the air and he could not decide which of the two extremes was more horrifying._

 _"S-Sophia!" He forced the freezing air through his lips, but his voice was muted and did not carry. He gasped, painfully, trying to see pass the blackness and the almost crippling, heavy silence._

 _A shard of light cut a river of the darkness away, cool and unfeeling. He flinched violently, raising his arms to protect his only clear eye. A small sound then. A sob. His great limbs lowered and he glimpsed, within the pool of light, lying prone and unmoving, a small mass._

 _Trepidation like none he had ever felt before wound its ice-like tendrils around his chest, taking away breathe and voice. A bell chimed within him, urging him away from the light. A darkness lie within it. A danger. Yet, another sob echoed about the air. A tiny voice. It begged him closer and he found himself answering mindlessly and without full awareness._

 _He crept closer, slowly._

 _And once he neared the very edge of the circle of light, he discovered, with great horror, that the mass was that of a small child._

 _No . . . not a child . . ._

 _Again a bell chimed, a warning._

 _"Sophia!" His voice splintered, shattered, and cracked the air, sending pieces of himself into the blackness that lay beyond the light. And within._

 _He launched himself into the cool, unfeeling light._

 _She was cold in his grasp, so cold that her skin burned his own where he touched. Her eyes, once so blue with joy and life, now gazed upon him with a likeness to pale water, empty and void._

 _She was small and delicate. A broken, fragile object in his arms. There was no strength in her hands. No life in her breast._

 _She was soaked in blood. A rich, bright hue that pooled about her and stained his hands, his tunic, hose, and shoes. It poured from a wound at her side, great and wide; almost ripping her apart at the seams._

 _He screamed her name._

 _The corpse had no answer._

 _Again her name was ripped from his lips._

 _And again the corpse did not respond._

 _"You killed her!" He cried out to the darkness beyond, bending himself around the empty vessel. "You killed her!"_

 _A figure emerged from the darkness before him. Yet, did not cross fully into the circle._

 _"You did that yourself."_

 _He glanced upward, straining to see through eyes filled with tears and over faded red curls still cradled in his hands. He stilled and his heart stopped its frantic, erratic beating altogether._

 _It was_ her.

 _But_ not.

 _"Why didn't you_ save _me, Quasimodo?" She asked quietly, her eyes cold and unyielding. There was no warmth in her eyes, no love to be seen at all. "Why? Didn't you care for me? Did you not . . . love me?"_

* * *

He woke, a heartbroken cry of utter hopelessness ripped from his chest, throat, and lips; his hands finding purchase in a twist of sheets and his arms bracing his monstrous body against the straw mattress. Tears fell in rapid sequence, quickly drenching his pillow and white night shirt. Raw, broken, shards of unbridled fear tore the night air, chilled with the lateness of the hour. He shook, _rattled_ , as the memory of the dream flowed through him. A hitched breath, a poor attempt to calm himself, and the sobs renewed with even greater force.

He collapsed, his body sapped of strength, and the bedframe shook along side his own. He wept wholeheartedly, far too overcome to pull back from the storm ragging inside his belly. He felt ill.

And so he was.

He was lucky enough to keep a pail beside him in the rare times such as these.

A breath, this one deeper and more controlled. Another. And another. He kept on, until his hyperventilating and tears had slowed. At least, to a lesser extent.

His dreams were never this . . . _vivid._

He wiped a sweating palm across his face, as if to rid himself of the images. It made no difference. He sucked in a harsh breath, willing them away. Still they remained. He shook his course fiery locks, carding that one lock of hair back only for it to fall back over his one good eye. He growled, yes _growled_ , in irritation and unsteadily forced himself upright. He reached up and yanked the sodden shirt from his back, tossing it into the far corner of his sleeping tent. It could stay there in the deepest shadows for all he cared.

He found a pair of clean hose, pulled them on, and drew back the flap. The clear night air sweep against his face and chest, cooling the tears and sweat in gentle, soothing touches. He pulled in a deep, slow breath and released it carefully into the night. The affect was instant. He could already feel the tension and fear leaving his worn limbs and heavy mind. He sighed softly, allowing his eyelids to flit and close.

With another deep calming breath, he carefully found his way to his workbench. Though he needn't have been so cautious. The moon was full and bright, throwing his loft into a soothing pale, half-light. The stars shone and twinkled at him, as if offering gentle whispers of peace from his night terror and enveloping him in the comfort he so desperately sought.

 _Thank you._ He offered silently to the heavens.

And he was thankful. He had much to thank God and His angels for. Most of all, for his new friends. And for . . .

He hesitated, almost stumbling into the table in the process. His hands braced himself against the familiar wood, strong and stable. Fear lanced through him, his heart flinching. The dream was far too fresh. How his mind could twist the truth! It was all a lie! Not an ounce of it had a shred of truth to it. She did not blame him. She did not _hate_ him. When he last saw her, her eyes were filled with life and her voice held no trance of accusation or vehemence. So, why did his mind invent such a horrid and disturbing dream?

He shook his head once more and sought for the bucket of water that sat under the table. Placing in on the tabletop, he pulled a clean cloth from the drying wire that hung nearby, and submerged it in the cool liquid. He proceeded to clean his face, arms, and chest, wiping away dried tears and sweat, evidence of his nightmare. Once the task was done, he found that he felt better than before. He stored away the bucket, rehung the cloth, and sat upon his stool to allow the night air to dry him. He was not yet ready to return to slumber.

Quite the opposite in fact.

The dream had left him severely unsteady, especially since Sophia had taken so much part in it. He had dreams of her before: Falling into flames, dying in his arms, and, even once, watching as his father pierced her with his blade and seeing the sheer _joy_ he took in wrenching Sophia's life from her. He shuttered, unwilling to revisit anymore dreams of such nature. Still, in the past month since the siege of Notre Dame, never had he dreamed such a vision in which Sophia herself accused him of allowing her to perish.

It was an unfathomable thought. The day she woke, she spoke that he needed to cease blaming himself for things he possessed no control over. She confessed to holding no such feelings against him and scolded him for thinking so. Nonetheless, he _had_ failed. In that brief moment before she fell, she had reached out for him. And his fingers _missed_ hers by a hairs breath. After all his promises to never let her fall.

He buried his twisted face in his hands, a sob rising within his throat. He could still hear her _scream_ his name, as if _begging_ him to save her. The echo stung and he inhaled sharply, struggling for composure. He was so tired. His bones felt brittle within his flesh; his muscles sapped of his unnatural ten-fold strength, and his heart, crumpled and torn, like scrapped parchment. He wanted peace and rest and to be rid of such harrowing _doubts_. Yet, even above all the unrest and dreams, he found, almost startlingly, that he wished to _see_ her most of all.

A small notion came to mind, like the rippling of a single droplet in the Seine. He felt his heart pause over the ripple, as if to examine it from every angle. Curious and yet, wary. It was unthinkable and unexpected. And yet, he felt a small yearning for the ripple nonetheless.

He rose from his stool, slowly, and in that slight, cumbersome way of his, made his way towards his sleeping tent for a fresh tunic.

* * *

The night air whistled passed him as he leaped, in his usual grace, across the shingled roofs, along small planked ledges, and launching by wooden windowsills. He moved silently, cautiously, and with utmost care; unwilling to wake those sleeping comfortably within their beds. The moon, ever so bright, guided his movements; illuminating his path so he would not fall. There were no clouds, only the stars and their presence felt like balm over his palpitating heart. Flying was always a pleasure he welcomed unfailingly and without guilt.

From the corner of his good eye, the Seine sparkled playfully. The muscle within his chest quickened further. He was not far. The tiny prick of uneasiness grew, winding its way through his belly and further up into his breast. It felt awkward and unsettling yet, he found himself pushing it away nonetheless. He dared not turn away and return to his tower. It was too cold there. Its usual comfort and warmth hidden away for the present moment. She would doubtless be fast in the slumber of her own mind. Still, he needed reassurance. Even if it was just to see her face. Yes, that alone would be enough.

He landed, a tad bit unsteady, and had to clutch hurriedly at the corner ledge of the roof to prevent his stumble from becoming fatal. He drew in a harsh breath through gritted teeth, the cool air hissing as it passed. Another breath, more of relief, and he carefully side-stepped his way across to the window. It was hers, he knew. Her room faced Notre Dame. He once glimpsed the view but, from within rather than without. A twinge of wry humor pulled at him and he felt a corner lift in small amusement. Now, it was completely the other way around.

When he stepped closer, ever so careful of the limited space, he found the shutters closed. His heart fell, he had hoped . . . then a sound. Tiny, nearly misplaced for a creak of a shutter or the quiet settling of a house upon its foundation, but still audible. Again the sound repeated. He frowned, ginger brows drawling together in thought. It came from the other side of the shutters.

He knew that sound.

Quickly, he lay a gentle hand against one of the panels of wood, fingers finding holds in its tilted slots, and tested for security. One pull, two, and it gave. Swinging the shutter out, and careful not to lose his balance in the process, he peered inside.

As soft moonlight spilled across the tiny room, the cut of his figure now the only darkness to mar it, he found her bed just beneath the window, blankets tossed and thrown about in harsh, almost violent twists. Her mass of short curls were thoroughly rumpled from restless slumber, flying about her face and spilling, just barely, across her pillow. Her small, oh so tiny, hands, still bandaged, clutched near desperately at what sheets she could reach with trembling fingers.

Yet, it was her face that brought the final blow upon his heart.

Tears poured endlessly from tightly closed lids, flowing across pale cheeks and down the gentle slope of her temple. Her color resembled dying ashes, the healthy pink glow startling absent. The skin of her forehead pulled taunt across bone in disturbed sleep, her expression filled with a mixture of pain, horror, and utter brokenheartedness, a sure result of hidden visions he could not glimpse. Her breaths hitched in uneven intervals, sending quivers along her sorrowful frame, and feeble mews of unplaced fear and denial tumbled from delicate shaking lips.

A word found its way into the open air, pleading.

It was his name.

Unable to listen any longer, his heart crumpling entirely at the meek cry, he reached out and freed the second shutter. He braced himself against either side of the window's frame and lifted himself to the sill. He sat, rather awkwardly, nestled within the opening and, with the utmost caution, leaned over the restless slumbering form; laying a gentle hand there upon her cheek.

The reaction was immediate.

She flinched away, violently so, and sky blue eyes flew wide in fright, a shriek of alarm upon trembling lips. Her shift, a tangle about her body, both from dreaming and from her sudden movement, slid from one small shoulder to expose the freckled, ivory skin beneath. Her breast rose and fell heavily in rapid succession, her breath hitching further. She sat there, curls askew, amid a sea of rumpled covers and a prisoner of her own dress. His large hand hovered between them, making no move to advance or pull away.

"Y-you . . . were d-dreaming," he offered quietly, forcing his eyes away from her figure. He had no right to see her in such a way. The trepidation returned full force and he was reminded once again of how forward his coming here had been.

Silence filled the night air, hanging like a weighted curtain between them. She blinked, once, twice, but made no move towards him or his hand, staring owlishly at his figure sitting in her window. He knew not what he should do, to stay or to leave. Yet, after several moments of such heavy silence and of her red-rimmed eyes refusing to leave him, he at last turned and made to remove himself from the window frame.

Instantly, there was the fluttering of cloth and a muffled _oomph_. He glanced back in time to see her scramble across her mattress only to fall to one side due to her twisted attire. He immediately reached out to her, offering his previous hand in aid. She stretched out her own and seized it quickly, using it as leverage to pull herself upright before blindly launching her person into his chest.

"Don't leave." She murmured almost desperately against the column of his neck. She burrowed further into him, her small arms wrapping tightly around him. "Please. If you're real, don't leave me."

Stunned at the sheer openness of her voice, how raw and emotional, he felt his great arms carefully enfold her. She felt warm against him, the thin fabric of her shift bleeding her very essence into his own. Her satin-like cheek found the hollow of his throat, resting comfortably there. Her curls tickled the skin of his jaw and her heart, laying firmly upon his, sounded a beat not unlike that of a wayward sparrow. Her timid hands clutched at the back of his tunic, as if in fear he would vanish before her without warning. He felt her sigh against him, a contented sound. His arms tightened around her waist, pulling her ever closer.

"This is a dream."

He felt her words more than heard them and could not refrain from answering with his own response. "Then, it is a good dream."

He lifted a hand from her waist so as to stroke comfortingly along her spine, allowing his fingers to ghost over the folds of her shift. A new feeling worked its way through him, warm and welcoming, and unlike any he had previously felt before. And, in that moment, he found the young woman in his embrace to be the most beautiful creature he had ever had the blessing to behold with his wretched sight. He yearned to tell her so.

"B-beautiful." He whispered reverently against her hair.

"Hmm?" She asked, still buried in the comfort of his arms.

"You."

"Oh." Her voice sounded far away and slightly startled. She leaned back in his arms, her face now flushed a healthy pink. "Really?"

"Truly." He answered with absolute surety and he brushed back a stray curl from her face.

Her color deepened and her eyes flitted shyly away from his, as if to think further on his words without distraction. "I think the same . . . about you, that is."

He smiled gently and reached out a careful hand for her cheek. "Yes, I do remember your words. They mean . . . more to me than you know."

If possible, her color flushed an even darker shade and he could find no reason to feel ashamed for causing it. It looked so much more appealing on her than pale white or ashen gray.

Abruptly, her expression shifted from deep embarrassment to outright concern. Her brow furrowed and her hand timidly tucked away his ever straying lock of ginger. "You're here."

He drew in a harsh breath and looked away from her ever searching gaze. "Yes."

"You dreamed." It was not a question.

But he could not lie, not tonight. "Yes."

Her gentle hands were upon his face in an instant, smoothing away at his brow and resting cheek against cheek. He dared not move, least he somehow disrupt her.

"I'm sorry," she whispered softly. Her voice was the balm he so desperately needed and he took a deep, settling breath to steady himself. "It must have been awful, to bring you all the way here."

"It was a lie," was all he had the heart to say.

"That doesn't make it any less painful," she reasoned. One of her hands lowered to his chest, finding his heart. Her sky blue eyes found his pale ones. "You're safe. That's what matters."

"So are you." He replied, gazing at her with unexpressed emotion. He lifted his hands to her face, stroking her cheeks with the pads of his thumbs, and gently pressed his lips to her hair. "I would be lost without you, Sophia."

She smiled as he broke away, her eyes lighting up from within.

"Would you like to stay?" She asked quietly, in that gentle way of hers. "So that you're not alone, when you dream?"

He shook his head. It was not proper, not matter how much he might wish it. Her gentle words and her loving touch was enough this night, more than enough to stop the dreams. "No. I must return to the bell tower. Morning will be here soon and the bells -" He trailed off.

She merely smiled and carded comforting fingers through his coarse fiery locks. "I understand. And you need the comfort of your own bed."

He reached up and rested his own hands upon her own, ceasing their remonstrations. A question burned in his mind, yearning for an answer. "Sophia," his voice barely above a whisper. "Your dream - ?"

"Also a lie," she supplied reassuringly, bringing his fingers to her lips. "Nothing to dwell over."

His good eye narrowed in concern, the memory of her pained face still within his mind. "You cried out for me."

"Quasi -"

"I cry for you too." He admitted quickly, watching as astonishment spread across her face. "My dreams are filled your death, your pain, and there is naught that I can do to spare you of it. Tonight," he paused for breath and for strength. "Tonight when I dreamed, you accused me of allowing it."

"Oh, Quasi." Horror replaced astonishment, fresh tears sparkling in her eyes, and he regretted his admittance instantly.

He took her delicate features in his hands once more, gently wiping away the sorrow. Oh, he should have kept such knowledge from her! Now she would blame herself, though no fault was hers. "Shh, shh. I am sorry. I should not have said – oh, do not weep, Sophia please. It pains me to see you cry."

"I-I c-can't." She sobbed, blue eyes flitting closed. Yet she did not shy from his grasp. "Not when – Oh, I don't blame you!" Her hands found purchase in the folds of his tunic. "Not a bit! None of this is your fault! I don't, I don't -"

"It was a dream, Sophia." He murmured softly in the shell of her ear, drawing her close. He rubbed comforting circles upon her back, willing her to calm. "Only a dream. And, above all, a lie."

"Y-you saved m-me, did you k-know?" Her words came in choked gasps, muffled by his tunic. Yet, he heard all the same. "W-when you held me in the d-dark. I-I could hear your v-voice, calling to m-me. Y-you were c-crying and I, I was so tired and hurt! All I wanted was to sleep and not wake up."

He felt his heart clench at the thought yet, he remembered the state she had been in. The amount of pain and torture she had endured. He recalled thinking that it would have been better for her to have already succumb to her wounds than for her to cling to what little life she had left.

"But you were crying," she continued on, her voice stronger, steadier. "I couldn't leave you in the dark like that. Not when you were pain and crying for me not to leave." She inhaled sharply and tilted back her curly head to gaze at him, her eyes shinning. "You gave me a reason to come back, Quasi. I came back . . . for _you._ "

If there ever was a moment in which he so desperately wished to kiss her, truly kiss her, it was now. Heat flooded his limbs and engulfed his heart, a gentle hand releasing her only to bury its seeking fingers deep within her mass of copper curls; the other winding itself further about her waist, drawing her closer so he could cradle her tenderly to his breast. How this woman could possibly exist, he could not fathom. For her to endure such pain and terror, only to return from the brink of God's embrace for that of his own – oh, how did he ever come to deserve her?!

Yet, as it was, his courage failed him in the end and his lips lingered upon her cheek instead.

"How is it, after ten long years of knowing you, I never saw it?" He asked pitifully, voice like bells breaking against her soft skin. His arms tightened, refusing to release her. He was never going to make that mistake ever again. "How is it I never saw you, Sophia?"

He felt her smile, rather than witness it, as her hands found the nape of his neck. "You _did_ see me. You just didn't know where to _place_ me. I knew you cared about me, I was just waiting for you to discover it for yourself."

Finding no words to express himself in that moment, he merely held her close until the gentle rise and fall of her breath slowed and evened out. He carefully turned her in his arms, discovering her to be fast asleep in a deep, peaceful slumber. With the utmost care, he lowered her resting body back into the safety of her bed; laying her blankets evenly and securely around her. Then, as if to further rid her of any nightmares, he pressed a careful kiss to her brow.

"Sleep well, Sophia. May you have no more dreams tonight."

He smoothed back a stray curl from her face and took his leave.

As he crawled into his own bed, Quasi allowed himself to further reflect upon his feeling for the young woman. And he found, with no guilt whatsoever, that he hoped to hold her again in such a way. He enjoyed the feeling of her against his heart, as if that was were she had belonged along. He turned over onto his side and allowed his eyes to close to such a dream. There would no longer be any further dreams of his father or of steel and ash. Not when he had the memory of Sophia's small arms around him and her gentle voice to call upon.

* * *

 **I had the idea for a nightmare story awhile back but, had no idea how to make it work and not throw our lovely characters into OOCness. It had to be realistic and not some out-of-the-blue half-baked excuse. Granted, this still feels slightly off to me. I'm not sure what exactly is missing, but I hope all of my QuasixSophia fans like it nonetheless. Seeing as this takes place a month after the last chapter (before the** **Epilogue** **) you see evidence of Sophia still healing physically (the bandages on her hands) and the night terrors that the both of them are suffering through.**

 **In TLWU I made note of stressing that Quasi and Sophia didn't need a lemon because their relationship was unsteady and still very young. Here we see that a lot can happen in a month. They still are not ready for that (I'm debating on making the last chapter of this series possibly their wedding night, but no promises), but you do see the growing intimacy between them. Quasi isn't afraid of holding or touching Sophia and she isn't afraid of showing affection for him for fear of frightening him. They both care deeply for one another, they just like taking their time in expressing it. Which is a good thing.**

 **Secondly, Sophia offered to allow Quasi stay in her home in general. Not necessarily in her room _with_ her. She just wanted to make sure he would be alright on his own or if he needed familiar faces nearby. Nothing else was implied.**

 **I have ideas for more One-shots but I'm not sure when I'll be able to get them written down. I'll do my best.**


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